


About Living

by onlyacoffee



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Mindless Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:12:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyacoffee/pseuds/onlyacoffee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jehan wonders if he should listen to Courfeyrac, and Feuilly decides to listen to Jehan. Because, after all, isn't time, years and age only a human construction? (+ a conclusion, with more Amis, more joyful laughter, and more drink!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by a post on tumblr by polishartsrebellion:
> 
> " GUYS.
> 
> FEUILLY MIGHT NOT HAVE KNOWN HIS OWN BIRTHDAY so what if when Jehan and Courfeyrac discovered this sad news they forced him to choose a date for it and then everyone just accepted and soon no one remembered that it was just headcanon, not real canon, because it was just Feuilly’s Birthday? "
> 
> so this is Jehan, and Feuilly, and mindlessfluff.

“Sometimes, I do wonder,” Prouvaire exclaims, looking up at the ceiling of the Musain, sighing. “Perhaps Courfeyrac is right, after all.”

Feuilly, sitting besides him, raises an eyebrow in question. Jehan only sighs again, dramatically, and Feuilly finishes the last of his glass, settling it on the table in front of him.

“Sometimes he is, yes,” he nods. “But in this case, what do you mean?”

“Well, I suppose, this,” the poet, nearly standing up, waves his arms around, nearly hitting his friend on the nose. Feuilly grimaces and gently puts a hand on Jehan’s shoulder, urging him to sit down. Jehan smiles sheepishly at him.

“Oh, sorry,” he says, smiling, a blush rising to his pale cheeks. “But yes, I mean this!” This time, the wave is more subdued in its movement, although no less expressive.

“The café?” asks Feuilly, amused. “What’s wrong with it – or is it the company, you mean?”

“Sometimes it can be,” Jehan agrees. (Behind them, Bahorel yells and Courfeyrac falls to the floor dramatically. Feuilly doesn’t even borther to ask.)

Jehan fingers the edge of his cup, growing thoughtful. “But not tonight, no. Although it does have to do with what Courfeyrac was saying.”

“Which is…?” Feuilly can’t keep the smile from his face at Jehan’s expression, the shy smile on his flushed face, his bright eyes.

“That I should live.”

At this, Feuilly bursts out laughing. “Live? My friend, what have you been doing all this time, if not living?”

Jehan looks almost embarrassed. It is not an unusual look for him - except in company. He is still smiling, however, an honest and cheerful smile, and his posture is relaxed.

“I mean experience, Feuilly,” he explains. “Travels, maybe. Women. Children, even, if God ever decides that they should exist for me.” He scratches the back of his head, messing with the long tresses. He flips them over his shoulders, fingers playing with the tips. “I am not sure, still. I have never thought about it, really, but what if I really am missing this kind of love?”

“Ah,” Feuilly grabs the bottle – already more than half empty, but the sun has barely set. He refills both of their glasses.

“Well, you still have time,” he says quietly after a moment. “And the means to do so. You’re young, Prouvaire, and this you call living – but it doesn’t have to be, if you don’t wish to.”

“As I said, I am not sure,” Jehan still looks pensive, but takes the refilled glass before him and takes a sip. The red wine stains his lips, and he licks then before continuing. “I am perfectly content with what I am, you know this. But… maybe.”

Feuilly shakes his head.

“Don’t worry, Jehan,” he says, attempting to keep his tone carefree. His head is heavy, and he feels the presence of a weight on his heart. “You are still young, aren’t you? Yet, if this is what you believe life should be, then you probably have lived more than me already.”

If his smile is a little strained, well, he hopes the other is already too tipsy to notice – but Jehan is Jehan, and it’s his turn to put a hand on Feuilly’s shoulder, his smile kind and patient.

“So are you,” he says. “You should not talk like this, not when you’re not much older than I am.”

Feuilly doesn’t reply – it is easier to look away. He is suddenly overcome by the need to sleep, or lie down, at the very least, but he doesn’t trust himself to stand up and say goodnight. It might be the wine, he thinks.

“Are you, though?” Prouvaire insists. “Now that I think about it… I do not know your age, my friend.”

Feuilly laughs quietly, mirthlessly. His own voice feels foreign to his ears, and he winces.

“Then that makes to of us, then.” He is not the kind to think back on his own life with regret; perhaps it’s the evening, Prouvaire’s company, his soft voice and gentle eyes. Or definitely the wine, after all – he hasn’t eaten much and has worked long hours – it gets harder to drink and talk, in these circumstances. Or perhaps this has been bothering him for longer than he would like to admit, since he met these students and their frank voices, since he got used to their ways, to their friendship.

Jehan looks worried, and a little sad; Feuilly immediately regrets opening his mouth.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so unkind to you -“

But Prouvaire pays no mind.

“What about your birthday, then?” he asks, and Feuilly shakes his head.

The other’s hand on his shoulder tightens. Feuilly wants to start apologizing again, but the poet cuts him off.

He looks up, and Jehan is smiling at him. His eyes are blue and warm, and Feuilly finds himself smiling too.

“It doesn’t matter, then,” Jehan says. “Isn’t time and age a human construction? It is entirely subjective to what our lives mean to us.”

“I… suppose so,” Feuilly says, hesitant. But Jehan grins.

“We can make it today!”

“Pardon?”

“Your birthday, Feuilly. Let’s make it today!”

Jehan’s enthusiasm is infectious, and Feuilly laughs – honestly, this time, loudly.

“Alright,” he says brightly. “Today, then!”

Jehan’s arm wraps around his shoulder and kisses his cheek.

“Joyeux anniversaire, my friend! How old are you?”

Feuilly has to think about it for a moment. His bones and joints ache, and he knows there are lines around his eyes, but he does remember playing, remembers feeling young and invincible. Jehan is right, he believes, he cannot be much older, although really, how would he know? Still, he tries.

“I suppose I am… 24 years old?” he attempts. It sounds right to him – and it seems like it does to Jehan, too.

“You suppose?” Jehan shakes his head, but he is only teasing. Feuilly grins, pinches his friend’s shoulder.

“No, I am fairly sure.”

Jehan smiles proudly. “This is good, then! Let’s tell everyone, and toast – because today is your day, and as of this day, May the 15th of the year 1832, you are 24 years old! And next year,” he continues, “Next year we will celebrate properly again, and every year after, until we are both old and gray!”

It might be the wine, or the company, but Feuilly thinks he can feel tears in his eyes at this – and so he and Jehan toast to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was my first time writing them - for this fandom at all! (I'm so glad to have found a fandom where my strange French sentences aren't too out of place!) 
> 
> So tell me what you think?
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is only a quick, silly follow-up, because I wanted to try writing the rest of the Amis at least once - although I suppose I cheated out of writing Enjolras, Combeferre and Grantaire. I'll keep them for next time, maybe?
> 
> also because I wanted to include pilferingapple's sweet, sweet picture: http://pilferingapples.tumblr.com/post/47096831507/well-i-had-wanted-to-draw-this-for (sorry there's no cake, Feuilly! Maybe next time? Or, ah - I'm sorry.)

“What is this I hear, hm?” Courfeyrac says as he appears behind them wraps his arms around Jehan and Feuilly – his face so close they can both smell the wine on his breath. “A celebration? A good day for a celebration, I say! But what is it about?”

Jehan laughs and returns Courfeyrac’s one-armed hug.

“A celebration of life, and time, and youth! To the beauty to days to come!”

“Perfect!” Bahorel suddenly slams a fist on the table. Feuilly jumps at the large man’s sudden appearance, but his head spins too much to follow the movement. He very nearly falls off his seat, but Bossuet is behind him in an instant. Feuilly looks up, and sees his own lopsided grin mirrored on Joly’s face as he sits besides him.

“Beautiful days, certainly,” Joly says, laughing merrily. “And even better nights!”

Jehan shakes his head.

“But not like tonight, never like tonight, because tonight is a first! Tonight must be worthy of twenty-four nights like yesterday’s!” He waves to a table to the right, where a green-clad form is passed out, face turned towards them, drool on his chin and an empty bottle left forgotten near his head. “See? Our friend Grantaire is already on it, and has drank for at least a dozen yesterdays already.”

“Oh dear,” Joly turns to look at Grantaire, a frown shadowing his twinkling eyes for the shortest instant, “Perhaps twenty-four nights is too much, and he should stop at twelve? Surely twelve is enough!”

“Hey,” Feuilly drawls – it is meant to be a protest, but he cannot stop smiling. Courfeyrac gently elbows him in the ribs.

“What’s with you?” he teases. “I haven’t seen you look this foolishly dazed since – well, I don’t believe I have ever seen you smile so much.”

“My poetry moves him,” Jehan nods, but his cheeks are flushed and he cannot keep a straight face.

Bahorel laughs like he does everything else - loudly and abruptly, quite like the bark of a great friendly dog. Over at the next table, Enjolras and Combeferre, previously engaged in a political discussion of some sorts, turn as one to look in their direction. Still slumped on his table, Grantaire shifts, and stirs, and groans.

“Then tell us, dear poet, so that we may be moved as well!” Bahorel thunders. 

“Well,” Prouvaire takes his time, basks in the light and easy-going attention of his friends. “Tonight is a great night, because, because – Courferac, please do sit down, you look as if you are about to fall.”

“Just get on with it!” Bossuet exclaims. Courfeyrac all but throws himself over the table to sit on the other side, facing the poet. Feuilly is still grinning, and Jehan – Jehan _winks_ at him.

Feuilly feels his whole face burn – and not only from the wine.

“Alright, if you insist on being so impatient – all of you!” Jehan looks at them all again, pausing as if making is an announcement of the highest importance. “Tonight is a celebration of Feuilly’s birthday! His first, and also his second, and third – up until his twenty-fourth!”

Feuilly is suddenly thrown off his seat by a powerful slap on his back, and he stumbles forwards, landing in Jehan’s arms.

“Oops,” Bahorel does not look the least bit sorry. Courfeyrac reaches across the table to ruffle his hair.

“Why has this been a secret until now, huh?” 

“Hum,” Feuilly tries to reply, before being engulfed in a large hug. 

“Hey, happy birthday, my friend!” Bossuet smiles.

“I suppose drinking more than usual is appropriate, then,” Joly adds as he clasps his shoulder, “But we should dance, too, to help the drink flow more smoothly!”

“We could,” Feuilly replies. Tears threaten to flood his eyes again, and he blinks.

“We will if you want to,” Jehan whispers against his ear.

“Yeah,” Feuilly breathes. He feels the arms around him squeeze. “That would be good, yes. Thank you.”

Enjolras nods and Combeferre smiles, tired but fond - they rise as Bahorel hollers at them to join and orders more wine.

Grantaire blinks, mumbles something, and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. Then he promptly passes out again.


End file.
